


And the Strings Sing Out a Waltz

by Sombre



Category: Aldnoah.Zero (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Music, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:23:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sombre/pseuds/Sombre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And the music plays on, a substitute for words. Slaine never understood what made Inaho want to be there, but soon he never wants him to leave.</i>
</p><p>Written for the AZ Fanbook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Strings Sing Out a Waltz

Slaine inhales, slow and deliberate, as he pulls the bow through the strings. He exhales, and the sound goes with it, grows with it. The first note.

Around him, expecting eyes. Attentive, but not judging. Excited.

But it’s a single smile that matters. And when Slaine sees it, he begins.

These are the words he’s never told him but always wanted to say. These the emotions from that day on the bridge that he could never bring himself to convey, the _why’_ s, the _who are you’_ s, the _this is warm_ and _thank you_ ’s.

He remembers all too clearly. Strikes a note. The pouring rain, like tiny icicles against his skin, the rippling water, the sharpness of the wind. Being so, so high up. And Inaho’s outstretched hand, and the strange nature of his voice asking, “Aren’t you cold?”

After that, he never was. Not really.

The strings sing out into their accompanying pin-drop silence. It’s familiar to him now, like what a smile was, like a pat of encouragement. The audience watches but he barely notices them, around and around he goes on the ferris wheel of memories. When the cold was gone but the crying continued, and he didn’t understand why. When the hallway stares picked up and the pointing began, just because someone wanted to be around him. When he started to really feel again, and it made things all the worse.

“Why don’t you play?” Inaho had asked. Always the questions for which he had no answer. The violin case was dusty then, the strings out of tune. That had been enough of a reason. But not enough to stop him. The next day, the wood was waxed and dusted, the strings replaced, no longer rusted, presented in a new black case, lined with velvet, and the single word.

“Please?”

Faster now, the song, the rise of the rhythm. Like laughter, the start-stop-start agains, when Slaine first let him listen, when his only thoughts were _this is silly_ and _I can’t do this_. But it was nothing Inaho would allow him to say out loud, so he played anyway, on and on, reaching into the small memories, before the day on the bridge. A laugh here, a smile there, anything he can give Inaho back as a thank you.

But he can only ever really show it as song.

For Inaho it has always seemed much easier, so much easier to reach into him and pull out the good when Slaine couldn’t do it himself, so much easier to produce it when Slaine was sure there was nothing left to find. A book of modern music, perhaps a CD. Small conversations that allowed Slaine not to say much of anything at all. And always preceded by the strangest of questions, like _what are you allergic to?_ before a surprise fully-cooked meal. When the staring and pointing escalate to pushing and stealing, it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded, away from the bridge. Away from the cold.

And the music goes on. Pushes him back, pulls him forward. He never understood what made Inaho want to be there, but soon he never wants him to leave. Slaine would find him the next morning, hunched over a textbook, asleep, having tried to finish both of their assignments. He would wait for Slaine outside his classroom door, walk him home, listen to him play. He would make him dinner, fall asleep on his couch. And sometimes in a chair. And sometimes on his shoulder. Sometimes his friends would come, and they were the only ones out of everyone, even the teachers, who never said anything about it.

They’re here now, all of them, a full year since that rainy day. Most of them have never heard him play until now, and when the violin sings its last note, they burst into a chorus of their own, of clapping and cheering and praise. And it’s been so long since he’s heard anything like it, warming like nothing else. He blinks rapidly, and looks away.

He doesn’t know when the other boy breaks away from them, never even sees. But a hand gently grasps his wrist, raising his gaze.

Inaho is there just as he’s always been, and Slaine swallows, not sure what to do. His words have always been silent, after all.

It’s the tears that do it. He never wanted to cry in front of Inaho again. He deserves more than that, Slaine thinks. But when they slide down his cheeks, he wraps his arms tightly around the other boy, violin and all.

“Thank you,” he says, shaking all the while.

Inaho smiles and hugs him back.

And they’re different, these tears. A song has ended. But a new one is just beginning.


End file.
